A Game of Nothings...

Yesterday was a game of nothings. After spending a day at work securing money for a part time contract which will see me remodel our departmental website on a freelance basis (which I don’t know how to do), I fell asleep on the bus home. Well, I wasn’t sure if I had. Unless a comedy promoter was on that bus and decided to climb on my shoulders and bellow down at me “DO AN GIGS!” If he did, then it wasn’t a dream. When I got home, I skipped dinner in favour of a ‘power nap’ before my gig. I don’t know why people put ‘power’ before them. It’s as if sleep is a shameful weakness that no one will admit to, so we have to write POWER before it. Let’s try another example: “I’m just off to put on a POWER frock.” Yes, actually I can see why they say that.

Anyway, this nap was without power. I awoke with the feeling I’d taken a cross-channel ferry somewhere (to France presumably). I felt nauseas, dry-mouthed and disorientated. People repelled me and I simply couldn’t empathise with the world around me. Yes, I was definitely in France.

I got a discount club sandwich from Sainsburys and a coffee from Starbucks. Starbucks have managed to fight claims that there coffee is too weak by making it twice as disgusting. Why can’t they just make coffee taste like coffee? I do it at home. It tastes really nice. Really coffee-y.

When I was on the bus, I was upstairs eating my gross sandwich and trying to ignore some local roustabouts (in fairness, they weren’t doing much wrong, just loudly enjoying their lives. How I simmered with contempt) when an undercover ticket inspector approached me.

“Where’s your oyster card?” she barked, looking at my sandwich. I don’t know if she was hungry or simple.

I handed it over, slightly coating it in mayonnaise in the process (Ed 1 – TFL 0). Once she had tutted in annoyance at the fact that it was fine, I asked.

“Didn’t I have to touch in when I got on? How am I supposed to evade my fare? Climb in through the top floor window?”

“You can laugh, but it happens.”

“No it doesn’t. I just made it up.”

I wish people wouldn’t make stuff up. Usually I let it fly, but I didn’t this time. That said, this actually happened earlier in the day, so whose the real criminal here?

I needed to get some cash out when I got to Old Street. The first sign I saw said: “CASH AVAILABLE HERE!” Oh no. It’s literally never a good sign when they advertise cash. When they advertise anything, you know it’s going to cost you. Even Jesus. Some evangelical churches have billboards saying “Jesus love you”…all right, how much is this love going to cost? I know you say it’s free. I know it starts off being free. But there are always the hidden charges. How is it that we’ve got to a hyper-advanced stage of capitalism where we have to PAY for money. Doesn’t that sound like someone’s done it for a dare, and then no one’s ever questioned it.

“You know that cashpoint prank we pulled where we charge people for their own money?”

“Ha ha. Yeah. Wacky scheme!”

“It’s now a sustainable business.”

“Shit!”

One day I will get off at a tube stop and there will be a sign saying “Oxygen available here!” and I’ll think “Oh no. What the fuck have I been breathing?”

I got to the gig and there wasn’t really anyone there. Well, there were the acts: a comedian, a musical comedian (similar) and some spoken word people. I don’t know what that actually is. I mean. I know what words are. I know how to speak them. I just don’t know what it means. I speak words onstage. Maybe you just take the laughs out of your set. If a gig goes well, it’s comedy. If not, spoken word.

It didn’t look like it was going ahead and no one seemed to know. There was a big football match on upstairs (i.e. on the TV. It wasn’t a spontaneous Shoreditch jazz football happening). I was standing in as MC for someone. I went and talked to the musical act to kill some time. It was pretty ineffectual banter. Always a good omen for my MCing. I yawned. The guy said:

“Are you nervous?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“I always get sleepy when I’m nervous?”

“Eh?”

“It’s a fight or flight thing.”

“Right. Those are the options. Fight or flight. It’s not fight, flight or sleep. OH NO! It’s a GRIZZLY BEAR!!! Zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

As far as tactics for not getting eaten would go, I guess that would at least confuse the hell out of the grizzly bear. Or maybe cause it self-doubt: “Oh God, even my prey thinks I’m harmless. It’s gone to sleep! I’m not a bear. I’m barely a bear.”

The musician guy was called Tom Adams. I heard some of his songs online. S’funny. Give a listen.

One of the spoken word (?) guys didn’t seem so pleased about things.

“Did you say you were pulling the gig?”

“Well, it’s twenty passed 8, there’s noone here. You can’t hear anything anyway with the football, and I’m not doing jokes to no people.”

“Well, I expect my travel expenses to be paid.”

“You’ll have to talk to the actual promoter. I’m here to MC. That’s all.”

“I cancelled lessons for this! This is costing me!”

“We all have private lives, mate. It’s not something I can control.”

He seemed genuinely pissed off. The other spoken word person arrived.

“Am I late? Where is everybody?”

“No one has turned up.”

“This is ridiculous. Dougie said it would sell out?”

“How can a free gig sell out?”

“…”

I have no idea what the spoken word circuit is like, but it seems they’re chauffeured everywhere on unicorn-drawn oyster shells. The only sense I got was from the other comic there, Dane Baptiste. I had gone to the toilet and my hand was still a bit wet. I hate when that happens. I always warn them, but they look at me like I’m a sex offender.

“Sorry Dane. My hand’s a bit wet.”

“No problem. The hand dryer in this place is crap.”

“Exactly.”

Sometimes, only comedians understand.